


Studies in Anthropology

by Virtuella



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Humor, I Love You Scene (Sherlock: The Final Problem), Romance, Sherlolly - Freeform, Sherrinford aftermath, What happened in the ambulance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 14:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14546913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virtuella/pseuds/Virtuella
Summary: Sherlock is giving Molly the impression that he is playing a game, though he actually has a plan. Unfortunately, his sister's plans cross his in the most inopportune manner.





	Studies in Anthropology

**Author's Note:**

> Usual disclaimers apply. Rated T for language.

 

It was one of Sherlock’s increasingly frequent bolthole days. On coming home from work she had found him in the kitchen, conducting some experiment that involved dissolving red cabbage leaves in a nauseating chemical concoction. At least he had cleaned up after himself.

They’d cooked spaghetti for dinner and discussed the latest cadavers. There had been an unusual case of sepsis which interested Sherlock greatly. At some point they’d migrated to the sitting room and installed themselves at opposite ends of the sofas with their teacups on their knees. The conversation fizzled out. A long silence ensued, during which the humming of the dishwasher competed with the sound of the rain against the window.

“Molly?”

“Hm?”

“Is love a social construct?”

She shrugged, being used to odd questions from him. “I suppose, in a way. But I’m no anthropologist.”

“But you reached a fairly advanced level in this game.”

“If you are referring to my bust engagement, that’s very bad taste!”

“I’m sorry. You cannot deny, though, that you have insider knowledge that I don’t have.  Am I correct in assuming that there is an established pattern in our society for the manner of proceeding through a romantic entanglement?”

“Kind of, yes. Why do you ask? Is this a new area of study for you?”

“Indulge me. How does the sequence go?”

“Well, it usually starts with flirting and at some point you suggest to go out with them, though sometimes you might get set up for that by friends. Or find someone online. So then you go out with them somewhere.”

“And the requirement is that you go somewhere special? A quality restaurant?”

“Usually, yes.”

“So for example what we are doing right now wouldn’t qualify?”

Molly glanced at her tracksuit bottoms and fluffy slippers and at the piles of empty crisp packets on the coffee table.

“No,” she said firmly. “That would be called _hanging out_.”

“I see. We _hang_ out a lot, but we we’re not _going_ out. Continue.”

“Okay. If it goes well, you’re likely to go out with them again. And after a while it becomes official that you’re going out, and you’d refer to them as your boyfriend or girlfriend. And at some point during this sequence there will be kissing and sooner or later sex. Probably sooner rather than later.”

“And that’s what they call _taking it to the next level,_ right?”

“Some people call it that. Personally, I don’t like the expression.”

“But there is always a clearly defined order of levels? Flirt, go out, kiss, shag, go out _officially_ , say I Love You, move in, engagement, marriage, babies? Or can you go through the levels in a different order?”

“I’m sure you know very well that the order is flexible.”

“Can you skip some? Janine let me skip some.”

“Depends on circumstances and personalities. And it would be odd, for example, to become engaged without having kissed. I mean, properly. French kissing.”

“Well, Janine didn’t –”

“You and Janine are not what we’d call a representative example,” interrupted Molly, who wanted to hear as little as possible about Janine. Sherlock put his cup down and steepled his fingers.

“So, anyway, whenever a couple want to…level up, it has to be initiated by one party and carries a considerable risk of rejection?”

Molly nodded cautiously. This was getting dangerously close to some painful memories.

“Let’s assume,” continued Sherlock, “that one party declares their love for the other party. In doing do, they are exposing themselves to the potential of embarrassment if the other party does not reciprocate?”

“Very painful embarrassment! I mean, you can bounce back if someone ignores your attempts to flirt or if it falls flat when you go out with them, but to say I Love You to someone and they don’t say it back, that’s devastating.”

“Surprising then that anyone ever does take such a step. I can’t imagine how people even muster the courage to ‘ask someone out.’ I should think that the risk of being turned down can never be completely eliminated. Has it ever happened to you?”

Molly bit her lip in frustration. Was he being deliberately perverse or just insufferably clueless? Hadn’t he asked Janine? Or was it the other way round? Molly didn’t want to open the topic of Janine again. She sighed.

“Yes, Sherlock, I have been in that situation.”

“How did you cope?”

“With rejection? The usual way: feeling upset and trying not to show it.”

“Hm. Fascinating.”

“What’s this all about, Sherlock?”

“Oh, you know. Expanding my knowledge base of human behaviour.” He stretched and yawned with his mouth uncovered. “God, I’m tired. Shall we go to bed?” As he did so often these days, he leaned forward and briefly brushed her cheek with his lips, then he stood up and went to the bathroom. “Have you put the date for the ambulance in your diary?” he called over his shoulder.

“Yes, sure.”

A little later, as Molly tried to retrieve her share of the duvet from a gently snoring Sherlock, she couldn’t supress the bitter thought: _We’ve skipped all the levels. We went from awkward flirting straight to Old Married Couple without so much as a single proper kiss._

oOoOo

 

“I do feel like slapping you again,” said Molly as she donned her latex gloves, “but I shall restrain myself.”

“Don’t go to any trouble, Molly. There’s no need for any tests. I’ve taken enough to convince superficially, but nowhere near as much as I want people to believe. That’s why I asked you to come out. If you say I’m at death’s door, people will take your word for it.  John trusts your judgement more than his own, at least in this matter. The ambulance is just for show.”

Molly gave him a stern look.

“You do realise, Sherlock, that this ambulance is not a movie prop? It’s meant for saving lives!”

“Trust me, what I’m doing today will save lives.”

“How so?”

“I intend to catch a serial killer.”

“By pretending to be a junkie?”

“Amongst other things, yes. My plan is complex, Molly, but your part in it is straightforward enough. Just play along with my game. Make the audience believe I’m off the rails.”

“I’m not a good actress. I don’t think I can be very convincing.”

Sherlock put his hands on her shoulders. “Do you ever worry about me?”

“Of course I do!”

“Build your performance on that then, and exaggerate. You can’t overdo it. Your first line could be, let’s see, how about this; _I’ve seen healthier people on the slab._ We can improvise from there. Make a big deal about how I have weeks to live, and I’ll be all callous and cynical and nobody will have any difficulty believing that. Will you do this for me, Molly?”

She scrutinised his face. He really did look terrible. It wasn’t just the stubble. He looked like he hadn’t slept in months (though he’d slept in her bed only a fortnight ago) and was incubating several nasty viruses. Was there any make-up involved?

“Molly? Will you?”

“Okay then.”

“Thank you. I promise you won’t regret it when you see the result. And now for a change of topic.”

Without warning, he kissed her. It was not one of his trademark feather-light cheek kisses, but a fully-flung kiss on the mouth. In spite of the stubble and the rank smell, it was…surprisingly okay. Had he learned this from Janine? Did she even want to think of Janine right now? Whatever his reasons, Sherlock was kissing her, and maybe she should just give herself over to this moment. His kissing really was…very okay. On the other hand, random kissing out of the blue wasn’t going to make things between them any less complicated. Definitely not. And now he pulled out her hairband and started to muss up her hair. She pushed him back.

“Sherlock, what the hell?”

He gave her one of his innocent smiles, as good as proof that he was up to some mischief. “Just levelling up.”

“What?”

“Studies in Anthropology, remember?”

“Meaning you’re collecting data about my response to being kissed by you?”

“Don’t be cross. I enjoyed it. Didn’t you?”

“No comment!”

He shrugged. “Come on, then, let’s get you decent. Your hair’s a mess.”

“And whose fault is that?”

He made no reply, just grinned and carefully rearranged her ponytail. When he was done, his hand lingered on the side of her neck and she thought he might kiss her again, but at that moment the ambulance came to a halt.

“Are you ready, Molly? The game is on.”

 

oOoOo

 

**Can you name acceptable alternatives to fancy restaurants? SH**

Oh, Studies in Anthropology again. Molly folded up the remainder of her laundry, then she grabbed her phone.

**Cinema. London Eye. Picnic in Hyde Park. Art exhibition or concert, if other party is so inclined. MH**

**Which way do you incline? SH**

**Not really relevant, is it? Busy right now, speak to you later. MH**

Her head was throbbing. She was coming down with something. The best thing to do would be to have a lemsip and an early night. And to forget about Sherlock’s nonsense. She was generally happy to help with actual cases, but this whole Studies in Anthropology stuff was for no specific case; it was just Sherlock collecting data for some obscure purpose of his own. For the last couple of weeks he’d been pestering her with questions, always acting as if she were some goddam expert on romance rather than Bridget Jones in a lab coat. She was sick to the back teeth of it. Just after nine o-clock she hit the pillow, grateful for the soft comfort of her bed.

The following day she went to work but it soon became obvious that she wasn’t going to last her shift. She took her temperature: 38.2 degrees. Yes, of course she could go home, the manager said.

She was in her kitchen and had just put the kettle on, when the migraine gripped her. For a moment, her vision blurred and then a sickening pain settled right behind her eyes. As if on purpose, her phone rang. It was Sherlock. She let it go to voicemail, but instead of leaving a message, he called again. He would probably keep phoning until she picked up, so she might as well get it over and done with.

“Molly, I just want you to do something very easy for me and not ask why.”

Oh, God, another one of his stupid games! All she wanted was to have her tea and her painkillers and to lie down in a darkened room, instead of being harassed by Sherlock with some stupid nonsense. Well, let him get it over with quickly.

“Molly, please, without asking why, just say these words.”

“What words?”

“I love you.”

It wasn’t a new game, it was still bloody Studies in Anthropology! But this time he had gone too far.

“Leave me alone!”

She almost hung up, but he shouted for her not to, and even now she couldn’t say no to him.

“Why are you doing this to me? Why are you making fun of me?” Because clearly, obviously, that’s what Studies in Anthropology had been all along. There never was a reason for Sherlock to consult her on the topic. He was just playing her, and she fell for it every time. What was he saying now? For a case?  A sort of experiment?

“I’m not an experiment, Sherlock.”

Some waffle from him about being friends and then again the demand that she should say it. She had told him it was a painful embarrassment, it was devastating, and yet he demanded this of her.  _Please don’t do this, Sherlock, don’t do it, I can’t, I can’t say this, not to you._

He has the nerve to ask why not!

“You know why.”

“No, I don’t know why!”

“Of course you do.”

Is it still a game? She feels like she has been cornered, as if all routes of escape have been cut off (though she could still just hang up, but she already knows that she won’t.) Her head hurts terribly. Sherlock commands. _I can’t. Not to you. Because it’s true._

“It’s always been true.”

She has said it now, not in exactly those words, but she’s said it. And the sky doesn’t come crashing down, nor does the earth open up to swallow her, but instead she hears Sherlock’s merciless, ice cold demand:

“If it’s true just say it anyway. **_Say it anyway!_** ”

The bastard! She is done with him. He will never stop using her, exploiting her, pushing her to her limits without ever giving anything back –

– unless she makes him. That’s it! Today is the day Sherlock Holmes will lose at his own game. It’s the one who says it first who exposes themselves to the risk of rejection.

“You say it. Go on. You say it first.”

“What?” _Didn’t expect that, did you, you bastard!_

“Say it! Say it like you mean it.” She’s got him. He can only give up or say it first. In either case, she’s won. Oh, and let him be quick, because her head hurts so badly that she thinks she is going to throw up.

And he says it. A smile of relief flickers over her face, and now would be the time to hang up on him and let him reflect on the full meaning of Studies in Anthropology. But then he says it again. Says it like he means it, or is this just her fever-addled brain imagining things? What game is this? Why say it twice? She knows he is a good actor, but if she’d heard him say that under any other circumstances, she would have believed him.

And she still hasn’t said it back. She’s still ahead of the game; she could make him lose with the push of a button. She looks at her phone. But she’s no longer sure of herself.

“Molly, _please_!”

This is no game. What’s going on? She’s never heard his voice sound like that. Stripped of all his cock-sure arrogance and insufferable flippancy. No, not true, she’s heard it once. Years ago, when he was about to die, uttering a single word: _You._

“I love you,” she whispers.

And he hangs up.

 

oOoOo

 

Much later, the alert of an incoming text message pulled her out of her sleep. The headache had subsided. She almost felt better, but then the memory kicked in. The message would be from Sherlock, of course. She knew she really should ignore it, but she didn’t.

**I know exactly what you are thinking. But you are wrong. SH**

**…**

**You really must be a genius, because even I don’t know what I’m thinking right now. MH**

**Are you upset? SH**

**Of course I am upset! Should I start keeping a diary chronicling my emotional abuse at your hands? Anything else I can do to further your Studies in Anthropology? MH**

**That’s what I thought you’d be thinking. But what happened earlier had nothing to do with that. SH**

**…**

**What was it about then? MH**

**Long story. Terrible story and not really my fault, though I’d still like to apologise for the way I handled it. I’d prefer to tell you face to face. Am I still welcome at yours? SH**

**…**

**I suppose. MH**

**I need to sleep first. When does your shift finish tomorrow? SH**

**I’m off sick. MH**

**Good. I’ll come round early. SH**

**I mean, not good that you’re sick! Shall I bring anything? SH**

**…**

**The truth? MH**

**The truth. I promise. SH**

oOoOo

 

The truth turned out to be a tale almost too tall and too gruesome to believe. Molly listened quietly, held his hands, dried his tears when he told her about Victor, made tea when he was finished. He had explained everything in great detail apart from the one thing she most urgently needed to know. While she was still debating with herself if and how she should broach the subject, he put his cup aside and said, “So where are we now?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s all a bit of a mess, isn’t it? We’ve kissed, but we’ve not gone out. We’ve never slept together, but anyone looking into your wardrobe or bathroom cabinet would deduce otherwise. We’ve said I Love You to each other, but the circumstances were far from ideal. Where does that leave us?”

Molly sighed in exasperation. Cock-sure arrogant, insufferably flippant Sherlock Homes was back. “I’m not playing this game anymore, Sherlock.”

“Is it just a game to you?”

“Seriously, Sherlock? _You_ are asking _me_ this question?”

He turned his head from side to side, looking at the window, the TV, the ceiling, anywhere but at her. “I guess the boundaries have become a bit blurred.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning the data I collected during my Studies in Anthropology has given me some new insights into myself.”

“You’ll have to be more specific than that, Sherlock!”

“Ah, but this is where it gets complicated. Where do I even start? I am a human being complete with feelings and attachments; that cat is well and truly out of the bag now. However, I do not fit any conventional mould, and in a way, neither do you. So I think what is between us can’t follow the usual pattern. And yet, it seems necessary to come to some kind of agreement, to be fair to both of us. We need clarity.”

“I thought it was all pretty clear already. You are my best friend, but your best friend is someone else. I’d do anything for you and you’d do anything to me. I have–”

She stopped, because he suddenly looked as if he’d been punched.

He shook his head. “Go on. Whatever else you wanted to say, I probably deserve it.”

“No, I’m sorry, I shouldn't have said that. You go on.”

He frowned, searching for the thread to pick up.

“Studies in Anthropology was never a game to begin with. It was…testing the waters. I wanted to find out how wedded you were to the conventional pattern, and I was looking for ways to move forward without risking rejection. That last part was foolish of me and cowardly. I only really understood that during the phone call. I should have been honest. If I tell you I am going to be honest now, will you believe me?”

“Depends on what you say.”

Gingerly, he took her hand and looked down on it, stroking her fingers.

“You and I…we…whatever we are, it could never be conventional. There are some aspects of the model that we would have to avoid, especially everything that relates to public display. The last thing we need is the paparazzi on our case. Then there is security. There is only so much Mycroft can do.  So far, I have succeeded in keeping us under the radar. Moriarty didn’t know how much you matter to me, and neither did Magnusson, unless he tossed a coin before he decided to target John. Eurus did know – and look what happened. I’d become careless, coming here too often, being too comfortable. She exploited it ruthlessly. There are others who would do the same.”

“I get that. But Sherlock, I’m still confused. I mean, do you…do you actually love me? As in, more than a friend?”

“Oh my god, Molly, didn’t I make that clear? Of course I do. What I am trying to find out here is, do you want me? Do you want me even if you could never parade me round a restaurant, if you could never tell people that I am your boyfriend, if we could only ever get married in secret? Do you still want me?”

Did she still want him? It seemed incredible that he could doubt it.

 “Of course I do, you silly man!” She brushed away the last of her tears. “I think it’s time you kissed me.”

“I agree.”

And the kiss was, unsurprisingly, more than okay.

 

 

 


End file.
